


Closed For The Season

by Mackem



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Christmas, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-27
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-15 04:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/523041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mackem/pseuds/Mackem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas was a strange time for Aziraphale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closed For The Season

Christmas was a strange time for Aziraphale. On the one hand, it being fundamentally a celebration of the Lord’s humble birth into humanity, he, being an angel, should find it a joyous time. On the other hand, in a far more down-to-Earth manner (pardon the pun, of course), Christmas left him terribly ruffled.  
  
It wasn’t so much the supposed “commercialisation” of the occasion. Aziraphale had been on Earth a lot longer than any human commentator, and knew that these things went in circles. Besides, humans had always been fond of flashy gifts and bright lights. The first gifts given to Christ upon his birth, after all, were all signs of wealth; a bag of gold, an expensive unguent and extravagant incense. Humanity had _always_ been partial to shows of opulence. It did not necessarily follow that their faith had been abandoned; giving those self-same gifts was a sign of love, surely. Old fashioned as he may be, he couldn’t fault humans for using their God-given free will to shower their loved ones with gifts.  
  
No, his concerns were far more mundane. Due to this same delight in gift-giving every Christmas Aziraphale found himself, in his assumed capacity as a seller of books, visited distressingly often by persons desiring to _buy_ those books. This was, to put it mildly, unacceptable.  
  
Aziraphale loved his books. In much the same way he knew Crowley loved his precious Bentley, Aziraphale loved his books. Where Crowley kept paintwork pristine, Aziraphale kept spines unbroken. Where Crowley wore soft leather driving gloves, Aziraphale wore soft cotton reading gloves. Crowley always had a pair of mirrored sunglasses to hand; Aziraphale had a pair of reading glasses on a chain. If someone were to make Crowley an offer on his beloved automobile, he’d be able to laugh and drive off. As a supposed bookseller, Aziraphale had to be far more inventive to turn away trade.  
  
He didn’t dust. The windows were left dirty and faded, festooned with fly-speckled cobwebs. The opening hours were, at best, erratic; one disgruntled customer had been ushered from the shop at ten-past eleven on a Thursday morning to stern cries of, “closing time, my good man!” The books themselves were organised in an order nobody but Aziraphale could discern. He made sure to cultivate a certain faint yet penetrating smell of damp. He refused to accept any credit cards _or_ cheques and when faced with cash had once declared only to accept postal orders. However cheery he was feeling he made sure to adopt a glowering countenance as soon as customers wandered over his doorstep. Anything he could do to ensure nobody managed to buy any of his books was put into practice. It worked; Aziraphale was an astonishingly unsuccessful businessman. He could go years on end without having to sell anything. It was most gratifying.  
  
Christmas, however, seemed to flush a new breed of customers into his little shop. Gone were the careful, reverent aficionados of his rare books; instead came enthusiastic members of their families, mostly cheerful, eager spouses hoping to find whatever uncommon volume was missing from their beloved’s collection. It really was terribly wearing, having to fend off pointed questions along the lines of, “Don’t you have…?” and “Will you order…?” and, worst of all, “Do you have a website?” That enquiry in particular was almost enough to make him swear. He had made a mental note to see if Crowley could explain this ‘internet’ to him very soon. The demon seemed to have a zeal for modern technology that Aziraphale did not share.  
  
One Christmas, brought to the end of his tether after a particularly tiring journey to deliver a moment of divine ecstasy in Aberystwyth (of all places), Aziraphale simply gave up. It happened as he was being what he could only describe to Crowley as _scolded_ by a particularly persistent woman. She’d stomped into his boutique towing behind her something the angel could only assume was a child, although this creature appeared to have been rolled in syrup. It was chewing constantly, in a peculiarly bovine manner, upon something which Aziraphale took from the sticky smacking noises to be either toffee or tar. He found his horrified attention torn repeatedly between these two beings.  
  
The purpose of their visit was a rare, early-draft Wilde manuscript in which the eponymous character was named not Dorian but Ephraim. The book was shelved comfortably in Aziraphale’s shop and he had absolutely no intention of turning it loose from his collection, so he’d informed the woman that he _had_ heard of the item but had never had the blind luck to come across a copy and, if she’d be so kind as to trot out, he’d like to close for lunch, there’s a good lady. The woman, it had transpired, was nothing if not bloody-minded and had begun demanding that he turn his shop upside down to satisfy her claims that he _must_ have it. He’d refused politely until two things happened; one, the woman began to resolutely snatch books from the shelf, examine the title and shove them back any old way and two, he noticed the child’s gooey hand reaching out to grasp a priceless Dickens. Fighting back a sudden desire to simply will both halfway across the Earth Aziraphale had taken a deep breath, calmly ushered the squawking shopper and her spawn from his boutique, and hung a sign in his window resolutely declaring: ‘Closed for the season’.  
  


***

  
  
“Well really, my dear,” he sighed over a sinfully creamy cocoa. He would expect no less than the luxury of full-fat cream from Crowley, although he’d had to will the tin of cocoa into existence in the demon’s ultra-modern kitchen. “One has limits. Not only was she trying to purchase an extremely rare, mint-condition Wilde, but she had brought her child with her!”  
  
“You like children,” Crowley pointed out while passing the custard creams, Aziraphale’s favourite biscuit. “You’re not capable of talking to them, but you like them. You learned all that magic for them.”  
  
“Of course, normally I’d welcome the younger generation into my shop,” Aziraphale frowned insincerely. “We must encourage bibliophilia. But this… _specimen_ had the stickiest hands I’ve ever seen. It was as if he were wearing a carapace of molasses, which frankly may have been the case. One does not hand the finest works of literature, in mint condition mind you, to a creature composed of confectionary. I haven’t the patience of a saint, you know.”  
  
“Well, obviously,” Crowley said with raised eyebrow. Aziraphale had arrived unannounced on his doorstep with a very fine bottle of Chateau Lafitte and an unusual expression on his familiar face. It had taken Crowley a while to realise he was seeing the angel annoyed for the very first time. It turned out to be disconcerting. “You’d have to _be_ a saint. I don’t see why you haven’t just closed up shop entirely. It isn’t as if you need the money!”  
  
“Contacts, dear boy,” Aziraphale said. “Trade isn’t all one-way. It’s worth seeing off buyers,” he said the word with distaste, “To deal with sellers. But I simply cannot face any more business until this festivity has passed. One chap even asked what day my January sale would begin,” he shuddered. “I almost envy you, at this time of year.”  
  
“No, you don’t,” the demon said, voice as cool as his sunglasses. “Not unless you’re deluded.”   
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“Christmas is my busiest time of year, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale seemed dumbfounded, paused in the act of dipping a biscuit into his cocoa. “Are we on the same page, dear chap? Christmas is the time in question? Celebration of the birth of Him, love and goodwill, ‘God rest ye merry’ and so on?”  
  
“Aziraphale,” Crowley sighed. “What exactly do you think I do at Christmas?”  
  
“Well. Nothing,” the angel managed. Half of the custard cream crumbled unheeded into his cocoa. “We angels are busy at yuletide, spreading good cheer and grace and love. What place do _you_ have? I should think you would be left with nothing to do.”  
  
“Have you ever _seen_ a human family at Christmas?” asked Crowley incredulously. “The rows, the silences, the disappointment…who do you think causes all of that?”  
  
The angel blinked owlishly. “Goodness me, Crowley, you can’t possibly be suggesting that you purposefully ensure Christmases are uncomfortable?”  
  
“I start the traffic jams in city centres,” Crowley shrugged. “I write the lists of must-have toys and see that they all sell out by November. It was my idea to advertise toys between cartoons! Brussels sprouts, they were me, too.”  
  
“Oh, really now, too much!” Aziraphale protested. The demon shrugged awkwardly.  
  
“I do sometimes wonder if I went too far there. But that’s my Christmas, angel. Barely a moment to myself. I stretch to the January Sales, too. One thing I wasn’t responsible for,” he said with a hint of reverence, “Was opening the shops for returns on Boxing Day. Now that’s humanity for you. What an awful idea!”  
  
“But…Christmas…is surely a time for love?” the angel said unselfconsciously. He took a sip of his crumby cocoa, winced, and set it down as he looked earnestly to Crowley. “Families coming together in good will and happiness?”  
  
“Really?” Crowley asked. He sounded not so much cynical as bemused.  
  
“Of course. I hadn’t considered the contribution of _your_ side, but mine do a lot to encourage that kind of sentiment,” Aziraphale said. The demon shrugged.  
  
“Such as?”  
  
“Well,” said Aziraphale thoughtfully, “Pantomimes. A fine old tradition, and an occasion for all the family. And carol services. Children’s nativities,” he smiled. “Christmas specials on the television.”  
  
“Really? I’ve been claiming those for my side,” Crowley said in some surprise. “What about Christmas songs? Involved in any of those?” Aziraphale nodded rather proudly.  
  
“I may have provided some inspiration for that…you know the one. About mistletoe, with the choirs.” Crowley winced.  
  
“Sometimes there’s a _really_ fine line between good and evil. I had the one about New York, myself.”  
  
“Yes, I recall it,” the angel frowned. “It contains some extremely salty language.”  
  
“You know, angel,” Crowley sighed, “I remember you being old-fashioned even when speech like that was modern. Well, at least you know I’m as busy as you, now.”  
  
“But…this is impossible, dear boy. Christmas can’t be a busy time for both of us,” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “That’s against all good sense. Christmas can’t be so contradictory a time!”  
  
“Can’t it?” Crowley yawned lazily. “When was the last time you truly understood humanity? The fact is, we’re both rushed off our – we’re both snowed under, hah, at this time of year, right? I don’t get holidays off. Not even bank holidays, and I invented those.”  
  
“I suppose, then, that I’m taking up your time?” Aziraphale asked, half-rising politely from the sleek leather chair. Crowley waved a languid hand.  
  
“If you can close up shop to stay away from humans, so can I. Besides, it’s Christmas! Time to indulge,” he smiled serpent-like, and filled the angel’s mug with a fresh cocoa.  
  
“A time for friends,” Aziraphale corrected primly, raising his cup to Crowley.  
  
“At least we’re meeting in the middle. Although I do wonder what activities we can have in common, for celebrating the birth of…you know.” Aziraphale pursed his lips thoughtfully and glanced towards the demon’s impressive television.  
  
“ _It’s a Wonderful Life_?”  
  
“Inspired,” Crowley agreed.


End file.
